“Really?” Hayes said. He examined his hands.
“Also, you have something on your knee.”
Hayes pulled the leg of his trousers up and saw a chalky white residue on one of the knees. He guessed it was probably pigeon shit, no doubt collected when he had knelt in the middle of the street to retch up. He frowned and licked a finger and began to rub it off.
“Here,” said the girl, taking a handkerchief from her purse. “Use this.”
“That’s really not necessary, thanks.”
“No, take it. They gave me far too many when I first signed on.”
Hayes took the cloth and saw the company insignia in the corner, an imperial M. “Very nice,” he said. “I didn’t get any handkerchiefs when I joined on.”
“Oh,” she said. She thought and then reached for her purse. “Would you like some, then? As I said, I have enough.”
“No,” said Hayes. “I think I’m fine with just one.” He tried to gouge out what was left of the pigeon shit. Then he shook out the handkerchief and folded it and stuffed it into his front breast pocket. “Thank you,” he said again.
“No, it’s nothing,” she said. Then she smiled politely and turned away. Hayes noticed she had an English accent, not unlike his, and what little of her skin he could see was burned smoothly brown. A sculpted drape of brown-red ringlets flowed down from the brim of her hat and across her brow before marshalling itself into a stern bun in the back. She held herself alertly, head fixed in the direction of Evans’s door and the secretary beyond as though she was waiting for the next command, matronly and militant all at once. The pose was painfully overeager on a girl as young as she was.
“Did you just get in this week?” Hayes asked.
She turned to him, surprised. “Well, yes, actually. How did you know?”
“Just a hunch. That and Jim in there often interviews brand-new assistants for Security positions.” He began rolling a cigarette. “Would that be right?”
She crossed her legs and respectfully looked away. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’m at liberty to discuss that.”
Hayes smirked. “I see. Well, you’ve got our stock response down. You’ll be a natural at conversation, won’t you?”
“Perhaps. That would bring this one to a rather abrupt end, wouldn’t it?”
Hayes’s smirk grew to a grin. “You know, you sound like me,” he said, undeterred. “Like another wayward child of Her Majesty’s kingdom. Where are you from?”
She looked at him, sizing him up and considering all the little wrinkles and stains that decorated his shirt. She eventually sighed a little and said, “Devonshire. Originally. But all over, really.”
“Where would all over be, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Cairo, to be specific.”
“Really? I’ve been there once or twice, believe it or not.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, half-interested. “When?”
“Long ago. Long, long ago, when you were a mere babe, I’m sure. What’s the change like, coming from there to here? I can’t imagine the shock.”
“It’s quite something,” she said glibly.
“Quite something? Ah, there it is,” he said, smiling wider. “There’s that magnificent English talent for understatement. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it.” He began to laugh, but the first few chuckles were cut short as something caught in his lungs. He snapped forward, hacking and choking and trying to ride out the deep, rattling coughs that started in the roots of his lungs and then ran up through the whole of his body. For a moment he thought he might vomit again, but then to his surprise the young girl stood up, sat down beside him, and then grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him upright. Before he could slide out of his chair she steadied the small of his back with her other hand, holding him still until air finally found its way into his chest again. He turned to look at her, wheezing.
“Air wants to go up and out,” she said. “That is, if you don’t want to choke yourself. You’re a smoker, aren’t you? I’d know that cough anywhere.”
He nodded but could not speak, as he was still short of breath. She let go of him, then stood and smoothed down her skirt. “Well, it’s a dirty habit. I know no one else thinks so, but it is.” She gave him an appraising look. “You need to start taking better care of yourself.”
“I take damn fine care of myself,” he said. He readjusted his collar.
“Maybe so,” she said. “But the bags under your eyes and the tremor in your hands say otherwise.”
“What are you, a doctor?”
“Oh, no,” she said, retaking her seat. “Just an assistant. But remember, sir, for the future: up, and out.”
They both looked up as the doors opened and Evans came out of his office. He wandered over to the secretary to share a quiet word. As he turned he spotted Hayes and stopped where he was. Then he forced a smile onto his face and said, “Cyril. My boy, good to see you. So good to see you. Why don’t you go in and have a seat? I’ll be in shortly.”
“Fine,” said Hayes, and got up. As he left he glanced over his shoulder at the young girl. She was watching him, half-bemused, half-pitying. Then Evans closed the door behind him and he was alone.
Evans’s office was far too large for one man. He often joked he had purchased his desk just to fill up space. Indeed, the desk was by far the largest object in the room, a massive medieval thing with all sorts of stern engravings crawling along its corners. A bookcase faced it on either end, both pitifully small, with four small paintings desperately trying to fill the rest of the wall space of the office. A tiny potted plant drooped in the corner, perhaps sent there as punishment. Through the windows at the far end one could see the rooftops of Evesden fall away like ugly dominoes.
Hayes sat down in one of the chairs before Evans’s desk. The room was silent except for the click of the clock on the wall. The quiet seemed to stretch on forever.
He rolled and lit another cigarette to pass the time. The match trembled in his hands, its flame dancing around the end of the cigarette. He took a frantic drag and shook the match out and tried to calm his fingers. They would not obey, so he stuffed his hands under his legs and waited for the warmth to soak into them.
Hayes knew Garvey and that awful girl out front had been only partially right: the opium and exhaustion were definitely contributors to his shakes, but they weren’t the main cause. No, the strange quakes in his hands had started the moment he’d read the telegram early that morning and realized Evans might be calling him in to fire him for good.
He drooped in his chair as he thought about it, chest still crackling with breath. He had never exactly loved his job, but he had little else. He could not imagine what he would do, what could be done, if he had no work to fill his days.
The doors snapped open. Evans walked in, turned and carefully shut them, and then walked to his desk, never glancing at Hayes as he went. He was a plump little man, only slightly taller than Hayes, with wire-framed glasses and a graying mustache and a glaringly bald head. People often thought of him as an elderly uncle, forever confused by how this strange new world worked. Hayes was more fond of him than he’d ever admit, but he knew this wasn’t far off the mark. Evans had never really been cut out for this kind of work. He detested any hint of conflict, and often relegated any unpleasant duties to his small army of secretaries, whom he looked upon as his daughters regardless of their age. He was usually content to wander the upper floors, distributing duties with a vague, satisfied smile on his face before returning to the shelter of his enormous desk and evading meetings.
“You’re early,” said Evans as he sat.
Hayes nodded.
“That’s unusual,” said Evans.
“Well. Had to get up early.”
“Oh? Why was that, I wonder?”
“There was a body, actually,” said Hayes. “One of Garvey’s.”
“Why did he need you for that?” Evans asked.
“He thought it was one of ours.”
“And was it?”